


Hopefully, it's enough

by Banashee



Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [23]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Angst, Bad Things Happen Bingo, Blood and Injury, Caretaking, Clint Barton & Steve Rogers Friendship, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Cuddling & Snuggling, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Mental Health Issues, Platonic Cuddling, Protective Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25805755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Banashee/pseuds/Banashee
Summary: Steve walks in on Clint in a very sorry state, bleeding and out of it. Naturally, he is concerned and tries to help his teammate and friend as best as he can.*+~Part 23 of my Bad Things Happen BingoSquare: "Bleeding through the bandages"
Relationships: Clint Barton & Steve Rogers
Series: Bad Things Happen Bingo [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1701046
Comments: 9
Kudos: 47
Collections: Bad Things Happen Bingo





	Hopefully, it's enough

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> so, because I love a good writing challenge, I'm now taking a part in the Bad Things Happen Bingo.  
> https://badthingshappenbingo.tumblr.com/  
> Please mind the tags!
> 
> I'm cross-posting this to my tumblr, https://banashee.tumblr.com
> 
> This is my twenty-third square: "Bleeding through the bandages".

****

**Hopefully, it's enough**

“Hey, what’s - oh shit, are you okay?!”

“Huh?” Clint looks up, blinking. Somebody is suddenly grabbing him, which is usually a bad move, even on a good day. The only reason he’s not throwing punches is because he is more confused than anything and he is unable to make his muscles respond fast enough. That, and the “are you okay?” part leads him to believe that he is not currently being attacked. Probably. 

Clint is not exactly at his best today and if he is being honest with himself, he hasn’t been in a while. The last two hours or so, he's spent staring into space, seated on the couch and absentmindedly scratching over the gauze bandage under his longsleeve shirt. It’s a nervous tick, something he does without even realizing it. Sometimes, it’s fine. But other times, he’ll end up reopening whatever wounds are currently under it. 

Truth be told, he almost always carries around smaller injuries - everyone knows this, and he usually doesn’t get questioned when he shows up covered in gauze and band-aids. He is a walking disaster magnet, after all. Some might say, he himself _is_ the disaster. 

“You’re bleeding.” Steve points out. He is still in Clint’s personal space. He looks concerned though, eyebrows knitted together in that way of his that clearly states worry. 

Clint looks down onto his arm and oh, yes. Just where Steve has put his hand in an attempt to push down on the wound to stop it from oozing, there is blood pooling from under the wrapping and it’s leaving dark stains on the gray fabric of his pants. Dark red liquid is dripping from his hand, some of it fresh, some already crusted under his fingernails. He didn't even realize he’d reopened the wounds - he never does when he’s in a state like that.

“Oh.” Clint says, and then tries to pull away from the well meaning touch of his friend.

“It’s fine, I’ll fix it.”

“Do you, uh. Want help?” the question is almost too quiet for Clint to pick up. He’d been supposed to get his BTE’s fixed, but there’s always something and if he’s in the field, he’ll use the other pair that doubles as comms. It’s fine, it works, it- fuck. No, it really doesn’t.

“Clint?”

“Huh?”

Oh. He’s probably been silent for too long, which really doesn’t help his claim of being okay. 

“Are you sure that you’re okay? No offence, but you’ve been a little out of it lately. I’m concerned.”

“I, uh.” He opens and closes his mouth again without really answering. Mostly because Steve is right. He still looks at him with worry written all over his features, then he gently pulls him up from his spot. Clint stumbles just a little bit. He really, really is not okay right now, no matter how much he wants to deny that. 

Carefully, he is lead to the nearest bathroom with a first aid kit. Clint is faintly aware that he is slowly starting to disassociate again. 

The body that's moving him doesn’t feel like his own. Every movement feels like he is being remote controlled, and he doesn’t even feel any pain - which he should. His arm should be throbbing in a dull ache, but all he is able to notice are the dizzy lightheadedness from the blood loss and his own pounding heart. 

Clint is walking down the hallway one second, and sitting on the edge of a ridiculously fancy bathtub the other. It takes him a moment to figure out that Steve must have put him there, because the other man is currently searching through the cabinet. Whatever he is looking for, he seems to find it quickly, because he turns back to Clint and gently taps his uninjured arm to get his attention. He turns to look up.

“Is it okay when I take a look?” Steve asks, waiting for the affirmative nod before he carefully starts to peel back the damp sleeve and opens up the gauze wrap. Clint lets him do it without complaint. In fact, he doesn’t even move while his friend is attempting to clean up the mess he’s made of himself.

When he removes the last bit of the blood soaked bandage, Steve bites back a curse. 

This looks bad - there are vertical cuts that are seemingly stitched up with what looks like dental floss. Especially on the deeper cuts, some of of the stitches have popped open, which is where most of the blood is coming from. 

“Okay, we’ll have to clean this. It’s probably going to hurt, I’m sorry, Clint.” 

Steve sounds a lot more calm than he actually is. There are plenty of questions in the air, but his main priority is helping his friend. 

Clint doesn’t react to the statement, despite being awake. The sharp sting of the antiseptic barely registers with him. He’s not entirely here, thoughts cloudy and far away. 

Steve seems to be talking to him the entire time while he is working on getting new stitches into his arm. 

Thankfully, he knows what he is doing. Years in the field have taught him a thing or two, even though Steve himself heals faster than most people. It’s always good to be able to help others though. 

He works fast and clean, and by the time he wraps a fresh bandage around the arm, Clint seems to be coming back to himself, at least a little bit.

“Thanks.”

The word is spoken so utterly quiet, if it wasn’t for his serum-improved hearing, Steve might have missed it. But he’s grateful that Clint seems to register what is happening - he’s been anxious about his state ever since he walked in on him in the living room. 

Steve stays right where he is, half-kneeling on the cold tile floor in front of Clint. From up close, he can tell how pale and tense he looks - worn out. He knows the archer usually keeps a tight lid on his real emotions, having a tendency to put on a cheerful show unless he literally has no energy or reason to do so. Right now, he clearly doesn’t have the energy to fake anything. 

“What happened? If you want to tell me, that is. You don’t have to.” He keeps his tone deliberately light, as if it isn’t the question that’s been burning in the back of his mind.

Clint avoids his gaze, focusing on lip reading instead. Then he keeps his eyes on the pattern on the floor. 

“Accident.” he says, just as softly as before. He shrugs self-consciously, and it doesn’t help Steve’s suspicion at all. Just as he is still contemplating what would be best to say in response, he is surprised to find that Clint actually keeps talking after a short break.

“Couldn’t stop thinking. I just fucked up and went too deep, that’s all. Sorry to bother you.”

In an attempt to get up and leave, Clint can feel his legs almost giving out under him. He slumps back into his seated position on the bathtub edge. It takes the air out of his lungs, and all he manages to vocalize after this is a weak “Fuck.”

Steve remains close, ready to catch him or stop Clint from injuring himself any further. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Solwy. Slow down.” He keeps one hand on his forearm, a bit of physical contact in an attempt to help. 

He is out of his depth, but it doesn’t stop him from trying to help.

“Please don’t apologize. I’ll be happy to help you in any way I can. But I don’t know how.” Steve tells him, and Clint seems to deflate at this. If possible, he looks even more devastated than before.

“You can’t mean that.” 

“Why not?” 

A small shrug. Clint still avoids his eyes - out of fear what he might see, or to hide his own emotions, Steve is not sure. It might be both.

“No one does.” Clint says then, and it just about breaks Steve’s heart to hear this. Slowly, he reaches out with his other hand to reassure him.

“I do mean it. I promise.”

Clint doesn’t answer. Instead, he slumps forward a little bit, almost as if he’s reaching out and Steve takes this as permission to close the small distance between them. He’s careful to keep the hug loose and gentle, open enough for Clint to pull away at any time, although it doesn’t look like he wants to right now. It seems to be the right call, because Clint pushes even closer and wraps one arm around his friends waist, holding to the back of his shirt while keeping the other arm close to himself. 

He’s starting to feel the throbbing pain now, but he’ll happily take the comfort while it’s offered. There is a traitorous wetness in his eyes and he’s ashamed, but Steve is warm and solid and here, so it’s okay. Just for a little while, he keeps telling himself. Just a little while, the he’ll have to get a grip and move on

They stay like this for a while, until Clint moves away.

“Sorry.” he says again, although it might mean “Thank you” as well. 

Clint still doesn’t look at Steve, unsure what to do or what to say next. There is a bone deep exhaustion in him, the kind he isn’t sure sleep could fix. But thankfully, being friends with Steve has it’s benefits. He just does things to help instead of asking too many questions. 

“Come on, let’s go watch something. I’m honestly not comfortable leaving you alone right now.”

As it turns out, “watching something” means both of them holed up on the couch in Clint’s apartment space in the tower, while muted movies are flickering over the screen with the CC’s on. Clint is leaned half against Steve, half against the backrest while dozing off every once in a while. 

It seems to be a good call, because it doesn’t look like he wants to talk, but he doesn’t want to be alone either. 

Steve texts Kate Bishop while Clint is dozing off, and by the time he wakes up again, he does so to a yellow lab jumping on his lap with its tail wagging in furious excitement and slobbering all over his face. There is a huge doggy grin on the adorable face, and Lucky sists on Clint with his mouth hanging open and the one remaining eye closed in contentment. His still wagging tail keeps brushing both men on the couch, and the sight makes Clint smile a little bit, despite everything.

He’s happily scratching his dogs ears while keeping his face buried in the soft golden fur. He’s missed Lucky, and having him here is way more healing than any medication in the world.

Thank fuck for having good friends, he thinks and leans back on Steve again, who keeps running a hand over the dogs fuzzy back and rests his head against Clint. 

He doesn't know when Clint will seek or accept the help he clearly needs. But Steve is sure that he is going to keep and eye on him in the meantime. 

Hopefully, it’s going to be enough. 

*+~

Square: "Bleeding through the bandages"

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings:  
> \- Blood and injury  
> \- Implied/referenced Self Harm  
> \- graphic description of injury  
> \- Mental health issues  
> \- poor coping


End file.
